The Dependent Variable
by Frank Hunter
Summary: It's hard to see all the variables in an experiment . . . particularly when GLaDOS is operating on her own agenda. One researcher tries to do his job while butting heads with the overbearing computer. Reviews are greatly appreciated!


**The Dependent Variable**

By, Frank Hunter

Deep in the heart of the Enrichment Center, a confidentiality fortification panel quietly slid open into the adjacent load-bearing structural planes. A man in a white lab coat stood before it as it did. He stood there longer than he needed to, watching it go with a little twitch of his moustache and a sigh. Dr. Bill Bryson legitimately hated his job. He hated Aperture Science, he hated this facility, and he hated, hated, _hated_ that he couldn't just call a door a door and a wall a wall.

His life, he felt, was defined by promises made in grad school that were not lived up to.

Bill's belly preceded him into the room – or not the "room," rather the "remote observational cubicle" – as it was apt to do. Bill had been working at Aperture for going on 12 years, and he had put on maybe five times so much weight. The daily exercise regimens weren't enough to keep a person in shape. Of course, leading scientists in the Workplace Fitness Division _said_ that those 90 seconds in the morning were all a person really needed to be healthy, but Bill suspected that they were full of shit. After all this time, he wondered if anyone in this place really knew anything about what was going on. Sometimes he envied the test subjects.

He settled into a hard plastic chair, the only seat in the uncomfortable little room, and took a sip from his steaming mug of energy deliverance fluid (coffee). "GLaDOS," he said out loud.

The computer piped up not an instant later. "Yes, Dr. Bryson?"

And, oh yes. As much as he hated this job and this place, he _loathed_ that bloody computer.

"Did I miss anything?" Bill asked.

"Your waste elimination retreat and adjacent social preoccupation kept you from your station for 11.9 minutes," the computer said. Bill scowled at it. It had watched him in the bathroom and the staff room and timed him, bloody _timed_ him!

"Need I remind you that Aperture Enrichment policy only permits the necessary 3-minute reprieves during testing blocks?" the computer asked without inflection.

"_Thank _you," Bill said through gritted teeth. "I will keep it in mind. Were you watching the test chambers at all while I was gone, or were you just following me about the facility?"

"During your absence, Subject #1733 completed Test Chamber 18, suffering only a bruised tibia. The subject is currently running 12.3 minutes ahead of the median recorded test chamber advancement time. He will be approaching the mean in 4.2 minutes. If you are ready, I will relocate your observational cubicle to the appropriate vantage point for this chamber."

"Not getting any younger," Bill said. There was a loud CLACK behind the wall, sideways movement outside the transparent perception surface (window), and a moment later Bill's room settled above test chamber 19. Outside, it looked like the rather scrawny, malnourished test subject was beginning to get worn down by his testing track. He was dangling from the edge of a mobile platform, desperately clinging to his handheld portal device. Bill shook his head. The solution was so stupidly obvious he could never understand why these degenerates always had so much trouble.

"Subject's above-average test scores are diminishing," the computer chimed in.

Bill watched for another minute while the subject got his feet under him, and almost lost his head, before he felt the need to hit the PA button.

"You'll want to be careful," he shouted out to 1733. "Those pellets aren't cheap!"

If the subject heard his voice, he didn't make any indication of it. He seemed to be getting stuck in an infinite loop with the portals, not actually making any progress. You know what? Scratch that feeling of envy. Bill decided that he wasn't jealous of the test subjects in the slightest.

"I don't know where they get these guys," he said to no one in particular. "But this is so much better than the Cave Johnson days. He used to make _us _run through these experiments like his little hamsters. I tell ya. . ."

"I can only offer my sincerest condolences for your past humiliation," the computer intoned.

Bill's chest fluttered. He put his coffee down on the console in front of him. Maybe it was the caffeine, but he would swear, no matter how many times the engineers promised him that it was beyond a computer program's logic, he would _swear_ that she was being sarcastic with him.

He decided to try something.

"Why would you do that, GLaDOS?" he asked.

"Please clarify, Dr. Bryson?"

"Offer condolences. You're not programmed to care," Bill ventured.

"My databanks contain detailed files on human physiology and psychology," the computer responded. "A direct correlation between the two is apparent. Humans perform better physically when they are not under mental duress. It is therefore in the best interest of the Enrichment Center that I provide peace of mind for all test subjects when I am capable of doing so."

"I'm not a test subject, GLaDOS."

There was maybe the slightest pause while the computer corrected itself. "It is in the best interest of the Enrichment Center that I provide peace of mind for all _personnel_, Dr. Bryson."

Bill smirked up at the digital documentation device (camera) above the door. "It would be interesting to know why you make mistakes like that, GLaDOS, as advanced as you are."

"Dr. Bryson," she said. Bill thought he detected annoyance now, though of course it was only subtle if it was there at all. "Though this cross-examination of my programming is of course enjoyable, policy dictates that you continue to observe the test subject until the end of this chamber."

Bill bit his lip, and looked back out the window. He was done for now, but when this test was over he would be making his way down to engineering. If a computer was not supposed to be capable of sarcasm, he sincerely doubted it should be capable of enjoyment. He also sincerely doubted anyone would listen to his concerns about the machine. No one ever listened to any of his concerns around here. When was the last time he even saw somebody from HR?

Out in the test chamber, Subject #1733 had just managed to solve the second-to-last challenge, and was now riding the mobile platform to its final turn.

"Crap," Bill muttered, and scrambled around his console until he found the clipboard he was looking for, tucked into a shelf underneath the computer. He flipped the pages near the end and hurriedly jammed his finger down on the PA button.

"Congratulations," he read from the mandatory articulation manual. "The test is now over."

The mobile platform made its turn and Bill clearly saw the expression on the test subject's face as he saw the incineration field ahead of him. Bill chortled and rolled his eyes. He continued reading.

"All Aperture technologies remain safely operational up to 4,000 degrees Kelvin. Rest assured, that there is absolutely no chance of a dangerous equipment malfunction prior to your victory candescence. Thank you for participating in this Aperture Science Enrichment activity. Goodbye."

Bill let go of the PA and leaned forward with vivid interest. This was the exciting part. This was the final test. Presumably, this one should be a no brainer, easy to solve. After all, the consequences were too severe to accept anything else.

As usual though, he was quickly disappointed.

Subject #1733 panicked as his platform leveled over the flames, and though he successfully opened one end of a portal on a small landing overlooking the field, he somehow got it into his mind that he could open the second end on the field itself. The subject jumped off the platform, fired his device beneath himself, and discovered the hard way that fire is not a successful portal conductor.

Bill let out a breath. "Every bloody time," he said. "Every bloody time, they never get that last one right."

"Failure rate is retained at 100%," GLaDOS confirmed.

"Right," Bill said. With an effort, he pushed himself up from his chair and took his still-hot cup of coffee. He needn't have even bothered coming back at all, really. The test results were so predictable. If only the computer hadn't been watching him like a hawk.

He took one last look out the window at the charred remains of the test subject. He almost thought to remind the computer to pick up the portal device from where it was discarded, but decided not to worry about it. There wasn't a chance she would forget.

"Pleasure, as always, GLaDOS," he said with his own heaping dose of sarcasm. He stepped over toward the door. "'Til next time."

But as he stood there for almost ten full seconds, nothing happened. This time, the confidentiality fortification panel did not slide into the adjacent load-bearing structural planes. It stayed right where it was, continuing to fortify confidentiality within the remote observational cubicle, as the digital documentation device trained its lens over Bill's confused face.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Bryson," the cold voice came from seemingly everywhere.

Bill felt a sweat breaking on his forehead. "What?" he demanded. "What did you say?"

"Control conditions have been met. Beginning secondary testing of the dependent variable."

"Dependent variable? What are you talking about?"

For a moment she didn't answer him, but she didn't have to. Bill heard the air conditioning system kick to life and, before long, a tinged, smoky substance began flowing into the room. It filled the chamber from the floor up.

"Rest assured that the ventilation system within this observation cubicle is functioning properly," the computer said. "So there is no risk that any following test subject will come to premature harm upon entry at the conclusion of this test."

"No!" Bill shouted and pounded on the door, but it at least did its job well. Better than he did, probably. "You can't do this! I am not a test subject, do you hear me!? I am a researcher!"

"Thank you for participating in this Aperture Science Enrichment activity. Goodbye." These were the final words he would hear.

Bill pried at the door and flailed around the room. He threw a stapler at the camera and a chair at the window. None of it made any difference. In the end, all that came was what felt like hours of intense pain stemming from the base of his spinal column and triggering nerves throughout his entire body. It was excruciating. And as the lights began to go out fully, he had his last cogent thought. It surfaced in his mind like a leaf in a murky pool.

_I should have taken that job at Black Mesa._

And then there was nothing.

The room was still for a while. GLaDOS waited until the body on the floor stopped twitching. She timed it with clinical detachment, and stored the result away for future consideration. It might be useful later on, of course, if not now. Science was all about the future, after all.

When it was obvious nothing else would be happening, she reversed the direction of the fans and began the flow of reoxidized CO2 back into the room. The experiment was concluded.

"Test chamber 20 has been completed," she said to no one in particular. "Data has been corroborated. A direct relationship still exists between test subject susceptibility to combustible temperatures and researcher susceptibility to airborne neurotoxin. No known anomalies have yet been discovered."

A digital documentation device in another observation cubicle across the facility picked up motion. The computer spared a kilobyte of its attention to register the activity. A thin, blonde woman wearing glasses and another white lab coat entered and the confidentiality fortification panel slid shut behind her. "GLaDOS? Do I have you?" she asked.

"Yes, Dr. Streeter," came the computerized reply.

"Oh, you're here. Good. " The woman ran a hand through her hair. "The room we were scheduled for is closed. Bill must have locked up after himself again. Can you open it up?"

The computer's attention spanned between the two cameras for a moment. The first regarded the corpse on the floor in the rapidly clearing room. "My apologies, Doctor," the computer articulated. "An automated sanitation coordinator is currently adjusting the room to comply with human health and safety standards. We will need to operate from this backup location."

"Oh, come on. Have they upped the cleaning schedules over the last few days? This seems to keep happening," the woman asked.

"I can forward you the new schedule if you'd like."

"It's fine, don't worry about it. Why don't we get started?" The woman settled into a hard plastic chair, the only seat in the uncomfortable little room. She set a cup of coffee down on the console.

"Understood, Dr. Streeter. Retrieving a test track representative from the relaxation vault. This may take a few moments."

Underneath the computer's primary directive, a subroutine sparked to life. Data streams ran through its memory banks and she began recording in the room with the blonde researcher. "Secondary hypothesis engaged," it said without speaking. "Trial #224 active."


End file.
